The Twilight Empire (Swords and Saints Book 2) Read online

  The Twilight Empire

  Swords and Saints: Book Two

  J.A. Hutson

  The Twilight Empire © 2019 by Alec Hutson

  Published by Alec Hutson

  Cover Illustration by Bob Kehl

  Cover Design by Shawn King

  Edited by Laura Hughes

  Ebook ISBN - 978-0-9982276-8-9

  All rights reserved

  Please visit Alec’s website at authoralechutson.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  1

  The electryc glowsphere dangling above me hisses and flickers, threatening to plunge the inn’s common room into darkness yet again. I pause on my way back to our table, adjusting my tenuous grip on the four bottles I’m carrying. The damn things are dangerously close to squirming out of my hands, and I wait for a moment to make sure that I won’t be stranded blind in the middle of the room when the lights go out. Which would be annoying, because the way forward is treacherous, a maze of ornate velvet couches, ridiculously overwrought chairs carved of ancient wood, and tabletops rough-hewn from some strange red crystal.

  It’s the crystal I’m worrying about – it looks expensive, and it’s everywhere. Apparently, this small town at the foot of Hesset’s Wall is the only place in the world this crystal can be found, and the locals in their pride have bedecked the common room of their inn with the stuff, fashioning the tables and windows and even the bar top out of the gleaming red rock. The market for it must have collapsed, however, given the look of the town outside and the deteriorating state of this inn’s expensive but ancient furniture. The dying glowsphere above me also suggests a dearth of funds, as does the lack of a serving girl to fetch our drinks. We’re the only patrons tonight except for a couple of men in dirty clothes – miners, by the look of them – hunched over their drinks on the far side of the empty room, casting secretive, yearning glances at the three women I arrived here with.

  Bell sees me stop and beckons me on impatiently. Her pale cheeks are flushed from the first bottle of wine, her lips stained purple. Beside her Xela and Deliah are engaged in an animated conversation that involves many hand gestures and snorts of laughter.

  Glancing nervously once more at the cracked glowsphere buzzing overhead I start on the cluttered path back to our table.

  The light holds, thankfully, and I clumsily deposit the bottles I’m carrying among the remnants of our dinner.

  “For you,” I say, sliding a dusty bottle of Velian sap towards Deliah. The lamias glances at me, winks, and pulls the bottle closer.

  “And it turns out they did have a Ysalan azure,” I say to Bell, twisting free the cork in the wine I’d returned with and pouring a splash of vibrant blue into her cup. She regards the meager amount with a frown.

  “Do you think that’s all I want?” she asks, pouting.

  “Perhaps it’s all you need. You’ve already drunk a bottle already.”

  And tomorrow morning we’re starting up the mountains, no matter how fierce the hangovers.

  “Have I?” Bell asks, blinking bleary eyes at the impressive mess scattered upon the table: the remains of a dismembered rock crab, two roast chickens, and a crisped pig’s head that Deliah insisted we order. All three of the ladies have healthy appetites, but it’s Xela who has surprised me. The Zimani shadowdancer is all long legs and arms, not a trace of meat on her lanky frame, but she tore apart one of those chickens all by herself and also claimed both of the rock crab’s huge claws while the rest of us were distracted.

  I reach across the table and hand Xela her fourth Seracan stout of the evening, a beer so black it looks like pitch, the color of the drink blending perfectly with her dark skin and tight leather armor. Without turning from her conversation with Deliah she accepts the bottle and takes a lusty swig, just managing to swallow before bursting out in laughter at something the lamias has said.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, slipping into my chair.

  “Xela was just telling us tales about Enlightened Zim,” Deliah says, holding up her glass of sap to study the cloudy liquid. “The Twilight Empire.”

  “Oh?” I say, taking a sip from my bottle of ale. “Anything interesting?”

  “Perhaps to you. Xela says Zim boasts the finest warriors in the world. Every high noble has a few of near unsurpassed skill at his or her side.”

  I shrug. “Wonderful for Zim. But why would that . . .” My words trail away when I notice Deliah’s smile. “Wait, are you thinking of replacing me?”

  The lamias shrugs. “Competition is good. It keeps one sharp.”

  The ale suddenly tastes a bit more bitter. “You are. You’re excited about seeing if there’s a better choice of mate over the Wall.”

  Deliah flutters her long lashes at me. “And if there is not, I can feel assured you are a very good choice indeed.”

  “Wonderful,” I mutter as I take another gulp of ale.

  “I wouldn’t trade you,” Bell murmurs drunkenly, her fingers drifting along my arm. She’s leaned in closer to me, and her hot breath tickles my neck.

  “Are we retiring?” Deliah pinches my chin lightly with two long red fingers and turns my face towards her. In the light of the glowsphere her amethyst eyes flash a deeper purple, the color almost matching her hair. Her other hand has found its way into my lap and is starting to play with the laces of my breeches.

  Xela is smirking at us from across the table, leaning back in her chair with one spidery arm thrown casually behind her head at such an angle that it looks like it should be dislocated. Despite Bell whispering into my neck and Deliah’s hand in my crotch I can’t help but wonder just how flexible the shadowdancer truly is . . .

  Enough.

  I give my head a little shake, trying to clear it. Bell whines in annoyance but I rise to my feet, brushing aside Deliah’s questing fingers.

  “We should find our beds,” I say, the words tumbling out too quickly. “We have to start early tomorrow if we want to make the first rest house on the trail before darkness.”

  “Can you find your bed, or do you need some help?” Deliah purrs.

  I cough, trying not to look at the red-skinned warrior. She is certainly aware that by standing up, my view of her has improved.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, half-stumbling away from the table as my desires and my rational mind engage in a vicious struggle for supremacy.

  We need our rest.

  Rest is always better after lovemaking.

  Bell is drunk.

  Bell is a woman grown, and she wants me.

  And my real concern . . .

  Will Bell and Deliah accept this? The lamias has demonstrated that she is more than willing to share, but I’m fairly certain Bell would recoil at the idea. How can I choose one or the other?

  That’s the thought that stays with me as I climb the stairs to the third-floor landing. I just need some time to sort through the best way to approach this situation. I’ve wanted Bell ever since I first met her, when she laughed at me from across a campfire with a crossbow cradled in her lap. I’ve fantasi
zed about her porcelain skin pressed against me, and her raven-dark hair spread across a pillow . . . but Deliah is a fantasy made flesh. And not one I can even conceive of setting aside willingly.

  I fumble the key into the lock of my door, nearly dropping it. I’ve drunk more than I thought, apparently. Lurching inside, I shut the door and flop down face-down onto the thin mattress. Then I roll over onto my back and stare at the red-crystal lamp hanging from the ceiling as it slowly starts to rotate. I close my eyes and try to force myself asleep.

  But my mind refuses to be quiet, and I find myself thinking about what brought me to this hardscrabble town at the foot of the mountains. The Masquerade at the manse of the Red Trillium Trust now seems like a lifetime ago, but really only a few days have passed since Xela and I rescued Bell’s father and slew the Marquis. Who, it turned out, was Valans – the son of the woman whose children I had sworn to protect as she lay dying, far away in a very different world. Whoops. He had been a boy when I first met him, but twenty years had gone by, some strangeness of the doorways that link the worlds. Valans aspired to demi-godhood by walking into the Cleansing Flame . . . the flame which I, in my wisdom, had doused him with.

  I rub my closed eyes, trying to massage away the first creeping tendrils of a headache.

  Has Valans become a saint? Will he come for me with his newly divine wrath? The thought seems preposterous, since I saw his flesh slough from his bones in a blistering instant. But the saint Bolivan warned me that Valans might actually have ascended. And then there’s the Voice I glimpsed for a moment back at the Last Word . . . what was it doing here? Had it followed me? Or had it already been here, waiting and watching? Were the Shriven preparing to invade this world?

  All of these problems are serious, but the most pressing one is what drove us out of Ysala: the cultists of the Cleansing Flame want us dead. And, apparently, as caretakers for a path to godhood for centuries, they have amassed a tremendous fortune . . . a fortune which now is dedicated to exacting revenge for my accidental extinguishing of the flame. So here we are, about to embark on the journey that will lead us to the Grand and Enlightened Empire of Zim, and hopefully safety. Xela has insisted that the Flame doesn’t have the same reach over the mountains . . . and if the rumors are true, then the weaver Valyra might be there already. Searching for her was what first brought me to Ysala . . . but instead I found her bitter and deranged brother.

  It’s almost too much to hold in my head at once; I do my best to push all these thoughts away and fumble my way towards sleep. Slowly, the sounds of the inn settling and the wind slipping through the trees outside fades, and I’m sinking into the straw-filled oblivion beneath me.

  Cold sharpness presses against my neck, and I lurch back towards wakefulness. My eyes snap open and I find myself staring into a face I’d hoped to never see again: ghostly pale skin, white hair that looks like it was hacked short with a cleaver, eyes like chips of jade.

  Fen Poria, the homicidal lieutenant of the Marquis.

  I swallow, and that reinforces the keenness of the knife pressed to my throat.

  “Stay still and be fucking silent,” she hisses, and I do just that. The drunken fog in my head has evaporated. Why hasn’t she killed me yet? What is this about?

  Fen Poria casts a quick, nervous glance at the door. “We don’t have much time, so listen. You’ve been followed here. Bad motherfuckers are coming. You need to round up all your little kittens and –”

  Whump.

  Something smashes into Fen Poria and she goes tumbling onto my bed, the knife vanishing from my throat. I gasp as an elbow jabs into my stomach, and then she and whoever jumped at her roll right off the mattress and onto the floor with a crash. I leap to my feet, trying to avoid stepping on flailing limbs. My savior is Xela; she’s straddling Fen Poria, her arm a blur as she strikes the smaller woman in the face over and over again, blood splattering from a split lip. Fen Poria suddenly twists, dumping the shadowdancer on the floor, and then in an instant she’s the one on top, her hands around Xela’s neck.

  “Stupid bitch!” snarls Fen Poria, her bloody lips twisting. “I’m trying to save you!”

  What the fuck is going on?

  I wrap my arms around the smaller woman and haul her off of Xela. Fen Poria growls and thrashes, throwing back her head and smashing me in the nose.

  “Hold!” I cry as points of light explode in my vision. “And you too!” I add quickly as Xela climbs to her feet with murder in her eyes and a curving knife in her hand.

  Fen Poria stops squirming, but something sharp pricks my inner thigh. “Let me go or I’ll fucking geld you,” she whispers in a voice so cold and hard I have no doubt she’ll follow through on the threat.

  I release her and she quickly crosses the room to put some distance between us, the three-bladed throwing knife that was a hair from removing my manhood returning to the underside of her bracer. She scowls and spits out a wad of blood, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Idiots.”

  “You did have a knife to my neck,” I remind her.

  “Yeah. And I could have killed you before you opened your eyes.”

  That’s true. “So . . . why didn’t you?”

  The anger radiating from Fen Poria seems to wilt a bit. She swallows, her gaze skittering from me to Xela and back again. “Ain’t got a reason to put you in the ground. Before was just part of the job, and I’m out of work right now.”

  “Then why are you here? Why did you follow us?”

  Fen Poria looks even more uncertain, her hands clenching and unclenching. “Heard a rumor you brought something big down on your fat head with what you did back at the manse. Those flaming arseholes opened up the coffers and put the worst of the worst on your trail.”

  Xela steps forward, and Fen Poria tenses, her hand going to the bracer where she keeps her throwing knives. The shadowdancer holds up her own hands to show that they’re empty.

  “Who?”

  “The Widowers.”

  “Fuck me,” whispers Xela.

  I don’t like the look on the shadowdancer’s face. “What the fuck are the Widowers?”

  She turns to me. “Mercenaries. Bounty hunters, the most ruthless around. A few black-hearted men, but most are spider-kin that have been cast out of the webbed ghettoes. You hire them when you don’t care if your enemy comes back alive or in many tiny pieces. They usually work out of Ashengi, down on the coast.”

  “Just so happened a few of them were in town. Staying at the Word, actually, so they know what you all look like. I passed them on the road a half-day back. Had my cowl up so they didn’t recognize me, but they were coming this way.”

  “How did you know how to find us?”

  Fen Poria sniffs the air. “Got your scent now. Kinda coppery, like dried blood.” She jerks a thumb at the shadowdancer. “And this one smells like a dirty Zimani.”

  “Fucking feral,” Xela says, shaking her head. Then a look of understanding comes over her face. “Wait, I know why she’s here.”

  “Why?” I ask carefully, half-dreading the answer, hoping that the fragile peace between these two doesn’t break.

  “She’s lost her pack leader.”

  Fen Poria casts her a withering look.

  “The Marquis,” Xela continues when she sees my confusion. “Wolf ferals need someone to follow. It’s the wild blood in them. She doesn’t know what to do with herself . . . and you were the one who killed her leader. Which means you have a claim over his pack.”

  Fen Poria looks miserable now, like I’ve learned something shameful. “Ain’t like that, exactly, Zimani. And even if it were,” her voice rises, becoming more indignant, “that ain’t much different to what you’re doing, yeah? I thought you were the Contessa’s fucking dog. Now you’re following him around.” She indicates me with her chin, her gaze still locked on Xela. “Even up into his room.”

  I turn to the shadowdancer. “Why did you come here?”

  Xela rolls her e
yes. “Really? You want to get into that now?”

  I shrug.

  “I thought . . .” She glances down at her feet. “I thought you were inviting me up when you turned down Bell and Deliah.”

  This evening has had many surprises.

  She points at my open window. “Climbed up. Thought it best if the others didn’t see me. I –”

  Xela’s mouth clicks shut as a sharp whistle comes from outside. It changes pitch, from rising to falling, like calling a dog to heel.

  We all look at each other.

  The whistle comes again, nonchalant. And there’s something else drifting in. Sobbing?

  Together we rush to the window. Night has fallen, but the inn’s courtyard is lit by torches driven into the ground. Within the light several shapes stand . . . or perch, or whatever it is arachnia do when they’re not scuttling about. The spider-kin are a nightmarish jumble of gleaming mandibles and segmented, hairy limbs sprouting from bulging thoraxes. There are also a few hard-looking men in armor. One of them, clad in blood-red mail, holds a woman immobile, one hand on her wrist and the other over her mouth. She’s whimpering, turned away from a long, serrated arachnian leg as it tenderly strokes her face.

  Bell.

  The man restraining her sees us gaping down from the window. He lets go of her wrist and waves at us jauntily.

  “Greetings and well-met, destroyer of the Cleansing Flame! I am Charix of the Webs –”

  “Oh fuck,” Xela hisses beside me.

  “– and I’ve been promised an obscene amount of money to return your heads – attached or not – to Ysala so that justice can be served for your crimes against the blah, blah, blah.” He makes a circular motion with his hand, as if this is all just unimportant drivel. “The hierophant had a whole speech he wanted me to say so that you’d know exactly who had ordered your deaths and the terrible punishment you’ll get in the afterlife for what you’ve done.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Truthfully, I don’t give a shit. Somebody hired us, so you die. That’s the gist of it.”